Courtship By The Food Court
by PisForParanoid
Summary: Conformists weren't the only thing that littered the mall. CuRed, Creek, Dip. More pairings inside.


Courtship by the Food Court

**Summary: **Conformists weren't the only thing that littered the mall. CuRed, Creek, Dip. More pairings inside.

**Pairings: **(main) CuRed, Creek, Dip (side) Stanrietta, K2, Kystophe, ClyBe**  
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**Disclaimer: **No ownage. South Park is Matt and Trey's lovechild. **  
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**Note: **I'm going to be trying to update this and 'The Great V-Card Caper' once a week, starting next week. Support is much appreciated.

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_One: Right in the Aorta_

In the land of lipstick and concealer, fit nice and snug between commercial smiles and dashing new "Tangerine Tango", stood a bored and rotting Goth. His hair sank down to leave only one half-lidded eye visible; his mouth slightly ajar and hair-flipping habit long gone in his dozing state. His mind was static, his vision beginning to fade as eyelids grew heavy.

The mild buzz of Fun. sang him into a deepening slumber with body leaning into a display of mirrors and make-up bags. If he was quiet, he could drown in the auto-tune and maybe - _just maybe -_ he wouldn't get caught this time.

His vision was filled with varied blobs of shifting shapes dancing in the back of his eyes. He could have been in his bed right now, aided by the darkness and gentle hum of Robert Smith's somber singing. He could have been embalmed in deep red satin in the hug of the sandman's grainy palms and rocked the fuck to sleep in a proper and practical location.

Somewhere that wasn't booby-trapped with pointy eyeliner stabbing at his elbow through the flimsy packaging.

"Dylan, you're pathetic."

He gave a slight nod; that was one hell of an understatement if he'd ever heard one. He had half a mind to take that eyeliner, flick it against his teeth to give it a little extra kick, and pierce his aorta. It'd match his snake bites, he could make it work.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

His chest deflated, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. What _was _he doing here? Of all the drone-powered, conformist-infested, shacks of crap he could have worked at, he just had to choose this one. There was mainstream pop oozing out the stereo like a fresh wound – which was starting to sound more and more welcoming than the shrill screech of 'true talent' knocking on his eardrums – and a frequent hustling and bustling of glitter-wrapped, gum smackers known as mall rats.

"Wake the fuck up," a slap hit each of his cheeks, clammy fingers shocking his warm skin, "You better not be dreaming about me."

Resisting the urge to smirk, he let out a low grumble and shifted his shoulders. He sighed softly, knowing that sound was a sensitive spot for the owner of this broody voice, and peeked an eye open.

Blushing with a deep frown was an equally stunted Goth of similar origins. He donned a white dress shirt, his trademark symbol of classiness, under a uniform black vest with 'Harbucks' printed on the right flap. A respectable occupation this one had; he was the envy of every splotch-faced, red-rooted Dylan there was out in South Park.

"This is your own fault," Ethan comforted him, a sentimental shoulder-pat to match his deadpan stare, "No one told you to work here, dipshit."

"It was a dare, fucktard," he rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn and stretching out his arms to expose a sliver of pale skin, "I didn't think they'd actually accept me."

"But they did," his shirt was tugged down, Ethan's eyes flickering threateningly to show his possessiveness, "And you're _still _here three months later."

Dylan shrugged; he needed the money and if becoming a cardboard cut-out beside the tacky displays of fruity lip-gloss and animal print purses was the way to go then he'd sure as hell be here every moment he needed to. Even if that meant dressing in cobalt blue polos and khaki pants. He briefly wondered where his dignity ran off to on the drive to work every morning.

"Dyllie, be a sweetie and fix the displays, hmm?" A strawberry-blond called from the counter; cheeks resembling apples and lips in the shape of a watermelon slice. She was literally summer in his eyes – smothering, draining and admittedly heating the room.

Taking the amused silence Ethan allowed him, the shorter Goth fiddled with a zipper of a make-up bag and stacked it back in place. He lazily jostled a few around, figuring that the messy look could do wonders for more than just hair.

"Fuck, don't overwork yourself there," joined a sardonic tone, laughing dryly at his work. Ethan stepped to the side, glancing at his watch for the time before welcoming another Goth into the mix. She filled her uniform rather nicely – a corset hugging her lovehandles and begging for a look at her bust. She didn't disappoint.

"It's tiring work, Henri," one of the make-up bags slid off the table and fell to the floor, joining two cracked mirrors, "Just trying not to kill myself is making me itch for a smoke."

"On my break," Henrietta offered, lifting up her purse and gesturing outside the shop. A glance at Ethan affirmed his support of this plan and before he knew it, the pouty call of "Dyllie, be back in twenty, okay?" was chasing him down the escalator.

The descending view didn't disappoint the artistic side of him: flashy lights and contrasting colors grabbed at every passer-by with promises of the latest fashions on beheaded sticks. There was a distinct aroma of coffee latched on to Ethan, which he picked up on as the tall boy nudged his shoulder in the midst of leading the trio to the parking lot.

The South Park mall was deceiving in a number of ways. Though the size was something to laugh at, it was jam-packed with enough stores to rival their grimy high school's classes and, for the record, the high school was mixture of North and South Park. Whoever thought there wouldn't be a bitter rivalry clearly had never watched their football games, which usually ended in their school team turning on one another and starting an all-out brawl just discussing the plays.

The parking lot was also much larger than necessary, taking up a ridiculous amount of space to hold a handful of cars. The mall wasn't ever close to empty, with a few stragglers always creeping around in the late night and morning. It was simply that anything and everything in South Park was in walking distance of one another; there was no need to drive.

Being in the minority of those not even living in South Park, Dylan found himself making a beeline for his car to blast some much-needed comfort from his own speakers. He technically lived in North Park and had moved in his middle school years – not that the move had stopped him from still living his life in the south counterpart.

As the stereo blinked on, he let out a breathy sigh and inhaled the sweet sound of synthesizers and distortion leaking into the sharp, frosty air. All doors open, volume twisted as far-right as possible: just the way he liked it. Henrietta pulled out her pack, Ethan his lighter, and Dylan was left leaning against scratched and peeling paint.

"Georgie's gonna be pissed," was the first utterance after all cigarettes were lighted and put to good use. Dylan shrugged, lost in the rejuvenation of non-shitty music. He should demand more breaks, he decided; or at least sneak in some earbuds so he wouldn't be brainwashed into muttering the lyrics that had been carved into his memory out of repetition.

"He'd never believe it," Ethan commented, taking a moment to become reacquainted with his addiction, "_Dyllie _in khakis and polos. Who would've guessed."

Any hopes of living that down had been shat on and beaten to a bloody pulp. He didn't know why he had even dreamed of it. Henrietta took notice to the nickname but dropped it out of pity – Ethan would pound the stupid joke into dust until he hooked onto something new.

"You should join me downstairs," Henrietta chimed in, climbing into the backseat and searching for a CD she had never gotten back, "It's not as busy, but at least no bratty kids come in."

The Goth girl had worked in a mystic shop: incense hitting any customers full-force and only deepening in the pit of darkness that held sculptures of gargoyles, fairies and any other 'mystical' items. She didn't get paid as much but she sure as hell could stand her job much longer than the other two.

"But then he couldn't stalk the little bitch he's got a boner for," Ethan teased, taking another drag. The track slipped to the next song: an appropriately agitated ballad about how love is bitter and broken. He supposed it fit.

"And who is that?" Her tone marked her perked interest and brought out a sneer from the tallest of the trio.

"He won't tell me," between the banter, Dylan was starting to wonder if he had somehow bled into the chipped black paint of his car or had literally gotten lost in the music, "Probably that twitchy fuck I work with. Red's always watching us work."

There was a desire to knock the cigarette out of his hand, as if it would accomplish something; prove a point. There was something off in the way it had been said, a taste of resentment lingering in the inhale of air Dylan had sucked in to wake himself out of the idealistic stupor he felt coming on. He wanted to blurt out a confession like in those overrated love movies that made him envious and disgusted at the portrayal of love being as simple as an 'I love you'.

He wanted to grab the boy by the neck, slam him into the car and taste the burnt bitterness in his breath and breathe in the scrapings of coffee that he knew would linger in the back of his throat. He wanted to rip off that goddamn dress shirt that was somehow always teasing in the way it covered up his desires and, on occasions that tested his willpower, would leave two buttons undone just to smite him.

"He's taken," Dylan spoke up, "Fucker's got him."

Henrietta hummed, feigning interest as she watched the two carefully. It wasn't uncommon to mention the stoic Tucker; he had smoked with them every now and then and bitched in monotone. With a home life that actually wasn't plastic dolls and race-car loops, it was an accepted occurrence and he was welcomed as a visitor whenever he needed a good smoke.

"Whatever," she concluded, tapping out her cigarette and crawling out of the backseat. The door slammed, she adjusted her corset, and made the trek back to the shop with a nod of a goodbye.

Left to indulge in his thoughts, Dylan swept his gaze over the boy he was left with. His hair had that curly mess like Broflovski's, albeit more attractive and tame and contrasting his paleness in a weird yin-yang manner. He wondered if anyone had gotten their fingers tangled, not that they must have minded much.

"You're staring," Ethan noted, stomping out his own cigarette. A few blinks and Dylan found himself left with he, himself, and Nivek Ogre.

"Fuckin' wonderful," he muttered, slamming his doors shut and returning to the blistering silence of the winter. He sighed, remaining in the driver's seat for a moment.

This was his own fault; that much he could admit.


End file.
